A Merry Little Christmas

December has arrived, which means things are taking a festive turn in our house.

The lovingly handmade tree has been pulled out of the attic, and dusted off. The Christmas lights have been unravelled and wrapped around every available surface. Mariah Carey is belting out Christmas Carols on the stereo, intermittently interchanged with Hanson’s “Snowed In” album (much to Hot Husband’s disgust), and there has been more than one robust argument about bauble placement.

All of the beautiful little Christmas trinkets that the kids have made over the past decade are proudly displayed on the “special table”, most with glitter missing, a googly eye half hanging off, or a random piece of bare tinsel attached. Not the most aesthetic pieces, but certainly the most beautiful and treasured. 

Unappreciative Cat alternates between sitting on top of the displays, and running like hell from the lights, but I know he secretly loves it all.

The Santa letters have been posted off to the Big Guy, and the kids have reverted to THEIR VERY BEST BEHAVIOUR in a last ditch attempt to make a good impression. One year, they each received a couple of potatoes in their stockings in response to naughty behaviour, and while they are doing their best to stay on the “nice list” this year, the Girl Child is being very reasonable about any potential spuds.

“Oh well Mummy, I guess we can just cook up any potatoes I get for Christmas Lunch!”

I do love that kid. 

So preparations have begun, and there’s no doubt about it: Christmas is on the way, suckers!!

I absolutely love this time of year, especially when it comes to the little people in our life. I don’t care what anybody says. Christmas is magic! You’ve only got to look into the face of a child to see that.

I can’t wait to gather our extended mob of glorious family around that shiny new table of ours, with Nanna taking prime place at head of the table. 

I can’t wait to celebrate the fact that we all made it through this crazy year, and that we did it together, supporting each other. 

I can’t wait for the littler kids to fight over presents, and chairs, and the colour of their cups; I can’t wait to eat so much that we simply have to undo our trousers; and I can’t wait to bring out Hot Husband’s birthday cake, which will inevitably be forgotten until tea time, because no one ever really remembers his birthday until around 8pm. He’s a good sport, Hot Husband. 

Drinks will be spilt, dishes will be abundant, and memories will be made.

Bring. It. On.

Big Love,

Rysie.

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